Wanted: Demon's Who Make a Bloody Bit of Sense
by mmm1912titanic
Summary: WeeChester AU: When Dean is attacked by a demon, he could never have imagined how his life would change. But ready or not, Dean's going on the ultimate adventure from hell.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: I own nothing, though I'd give my right hand to own Dean. This story is definitely an AU Weechester. I've taken elements from the show and twisted them to fit my own needs. Reviews would be lovely. Let me know what you think!**

**Summary: When Dean is attacked by a demon he never could have imagined the way his life would change...**

This house does strange things to me. If I'm alone in it too long I can feel the happiness leach from my mind and a dark pit open up. We've only lived here a week and in that time every time my brother goes off to school and Dad takes off for work, I can feel it—that pit. Now, I'm not one prone to depression. I've seen enough terrible shit in my life to know that as long as my family and I are still breathing, it's been a damn good day. But not even watching the beauties of Bay Watch can shake that darkened pit away. Turning the TV off and doing something else doesn't help. The only time I feel any relief is when someone's here, their voice loud in my ear, the sound filling the pit inside. Going outside helps too. The farther I walk, the smaller the pit gets. It disappears completely about a mile out.

I asked Sammy if he felt it, but he just gave me a blank stare and a shrug. Since he hit high school, he's been a moody little bitch. He and Dad fight whenever they're in the same air space and I learned quick that getting out of their way is often the best—and only—option. That doesn't change the fact that something is up. Every instinct screams it. But until my arm heals, Dad won't take me with him on hunts and I dropped out of high school two years ago. Some might say, high school drop out, bad home environment, no job, no friends—kids just depressed. But I know depression; I've seen it, felt it first hand.

This feels cold, and slimy, and separate from me in a way depression never does. Depression feels like a murky swamp, sucking you down face first so your screams are drowned out by the water and mud. This pit feels like a black hole—all howling wind and biting cold emptiness. It's four o'clock now. I've been alone since 11 when Dad left to go interview a couple of witnesses. He thinks its werewolves. The time of the month fits. As does the trail of corpses missing their hearts and their throats. I tap at my cast. It goes down to encase my fingers, leaving only the thumb free. The broken bones in my wrist, forearm, and hand are all courtesy of a poltergeist who threw me through a window and then held me down while her partner bashed my hand over and over again with a lamp. Doc says I have twenty separate fractures and won't have full use of my arm or my hand for at least another two months. It's been three weeks already and I'm about to cut the damn thing off.

There's no way Dad can take on the number of werewolves that must be out there to account for the amount of bodies that were found. He'll need backup and Sam'll refuse, I know he will. Kid hates hunting. At sixteen he's all knees and elbows, taller than me and Dad, with a bee so far up his bonnet that you couldn't find it with a telescope and a flashlight. I love the kid but I was going on hunts when I was twelve, training since I was six. He needs to step up, at least until I can get back in there.

Getting off the couch, I grab my jacket and head for the door. I can't stand the silence, the gnawing pit, a second longer. I reach for the knob but it's already turning. I stop, draw back, expecting Dad to open it and come through any second. But the knob keeps spinning, going faster and faster until it's nothing but a blur. The hairs on my neck creep up. I back up, pull my knife from my pocket. Whatever's causing the knob to go all Carrot Top isn't just the wind. It's got to be something else. As if hearing my thoughts, the knob stops spinning, coming to a stop with a screech and the smell of burning metal.

I tighten my grip on the knife, eyes never leaving the door. Silence. Then a knock, followed by a soft, almost inaudible giggle. The knob rattles again and then the door flies open, connecting with the wall so hard it pops free of the top hinges and hangs there like badly hung laundry. My heart rate jumps but I stay calm, my hold on the knife never loosening. A little girl stands in the doorway. She can't be much over eight or nine. She smiles at me and giggles.

"Hello," she says. Blood coats her teeth and lips, going down to stain the poufy purple dress she wears. I don't think the blood is hers and she looks too solid to be a ghost. That means demon, or maybe shape shifter.

Her smile never lessens and it's beginning to seriously freak me out. She glances around, stepping daintily over the threshold. "My, my, how dreary this place is. I didn't expect to find you here, Lucy."

_Lucy?_

"Sorry, kid," I say. She's between the front door and me. The kitchen window behind me is too small to get through and the ones in the bedrooms are too far to reach. "But you did kind of knock down my front door; tends to give a place a run down look."

That makes her giggle. "You're funny." Her smile tightens, red leaching over her eyes until the color fills them from corner to corner. "But it's time to go back. You've been very naughty, Lucy. Daddy wants to have a word with you." The blood makes her look feral as she saunters closer. "And Daddy's words aren't nice."

My mouth goes dry at the sight of her eyes. Red eyes means demon. And not just any demon but a crossroads demon. _Damn it. Whatever brought her here can't be good. Stall, Dean, you need to stall._

"I'm sure they're not; but my name ain't Lucy and I'm not going anywhere with you, bitch, so I think you're shit out of luck."

Whoops. That might have been the wrong thing to say.

Her face curdles, mouth and cheeks sucked inward as if tasting something rotten, but the next several things she does pass by in a blur, too fast to track. One second there's three or four feet between us; the next her tiny fingers are gripping my wrist and the knife is in her hand, not mine. Then, pain. Bright, horrible pain.

I glance down and think I might be sick. The knife is buried to the hilt in my stomach, her tiny hand tight on the blade. The demon giggles and twists. My knees go out from under me. It's a bad move. Because as I drop, the hand holding the knife doesn't, so my drop forces the knife upward, only stopping when it hits the bottom of my sternum. I don't even think to scream. I can't. I can't do anything but stare at her dumbly. She smiles and pats my cheek but I barely feel it. I do feel when she yanks the blade free. It's too much. My vision blackens and the next thing I know I'm staring at the ceiling.

Everything is cold, and far away. A tiny head moves into my line of sight. I know I should try to move, try to get away from her, but I can't summon the energy or the will. My limbs are cold, heavy bracken that I can barely feel. The head brings something to it—her—lips—the knife—and licks it free. I hear a giggle, and something about her Daddy being mad she'd made a mess, but the rest of the words are lost in the haze surrounding me.

_Sam,_ I think.

I need to get up, stop her before she hurts Sam. Or Dad. But any thought of movement dies in a white-hot super nova of pain as she kneels on my chest. The pain momentarily clears my head and panic hits. I need to kill her now. Panic gives me strength. I lunge upward, toppling her to the floor. She falls in a surprised heap of purple taffeta and I follow her, eyes intent on the knife in her hand.

I rip it from her and with every ounce of my waning energy, I drive it into her throat. She flails but I pin her under me, my body dead weight across her. Desperate, I saw, holding her head down with my casted arm. Blood spurts up, hot and thick, but I ignore it. My vision is a dark tunnel. All I can see in my knife, her throat. Somehow I know if I can cut all the way through, she'll be dead. And not just the host—the demon.

The demon knows it too. She pushes against me frantically but it's too late. I can't feel her hands as they claw into my biceps, can't feel her feet kicking my shins. That all stops as her head separates from her body. I rip it free and stare at the black smoke leaking out along with the blood. It pools on the floor and with the last of my strength I slap my hand down. There's a rush of wind, of static, a shriek I can feel all the way down to my bones, and when I lift my hand there's nothing there except for a few final curls of smoke.

_Good_, I think. And then my eyes roll back into my skull. The last thing I see is the final afterimage of the bloody floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note: If you didn't figure it out in the first chapter, I might just be a gore hound. My apologies. There will be more blood within. You have been warned. **

I wake up to the smell of rotten meat. It hangs supine in the air making me seriously reconsider the hamburger I had for lunch. I force my eyes open. All I see is white. I blink and the white blur becomes the ceiling.

I'm flat on my back. Wherever I am, it's quiet, the only sound the soft murmur of the wind. The smell isn't getting any better and with a groan I force myself up onto my elbows. I'm on the floor of the tiny bedroom Sam and I share, which seems strange but I can't figure out why.

Looking down at my t-shirt gives me a clue. Not to why I'm on the floor exactly, but seeing the ragged, bloody hole jolts my memory. My head jerks towards the bedroom door, ears straining.

The demon.

I blink, lick my lips. My heart beats reassuringly in my chest and I risk moving, slowly pulling myself to my feet. The room grays and then steadies and I make my way towards the living room.

My mind runs in circles, frantically trying to put the rest of the pieces together. I should be dead. I know that. Dead on the living room floor for my family to find. But outside of the massive amount of blood staining my clothing and a pounding ache in my head, I'm fine.

There's not even a scar to show where the demon's knife gutted me. Sweat makes a lazy trail down my back as I round the corner. The demon's body is where I left it, but the head now sits on the kitchen table. My stomach rebels and I turn and run for the bathroom. I barely make it before the hamburger and the rest of my lunch fights its way out of my throat.

Heaves come and come until I'm a shaking mess barely able to hold myself up. Dread coils through me. I need to clean this up before Dad and Sam return. A quick glance at the clock says I've only been out ten or fifteen minutes. Which means, best case, I have about two hours before the rest of my family comes home.

First, I strip, throwing the blood soaked clothes into a garbage bag. My brain is a blank buzz. I see my body moving but my brain has become disengaged, unable to deal with what's happening.

The smell of rotten meat is worse in the living room and I gingerly pick up the head by the hair. The mouth gapes open and I nearly start puking all over again. The demon had possessed a little girl.

I killed a little girl along with the demon.

The head falls from nerveless fingers, making it into the garbage bag by pure luck. The shakes spread from my hands up my arms and down my chest to my legs. I find myself sitting on the coffee table, unable to remember putting it upright or sitting. I stare at the headless body. Small as it is, it won't fit in a garbage bag. I wonder if I should wait for Dad after all. But, no, I can't. Sam will be with him.

Getting up again is harder than it has any right to be. I grab one of the spare blankets from the bed and wrap the body up, then I clean up the blood. It's everywhere, covering the cheap vinyl flooring in sticky swaths. A soapy sponge cleans it right up though and a roll of paper towels later and there's no sign that two people died there.

_Well, one._

I touch my stomach. I'm still shaking and my skin feels icy to the touch. It frightens me and I drop my hand. It's still daylight out, but we live at the end of a row of cheap houses, nothing behind us but woods. No one stirs outside as I carry out the garbage bag and rolled up towel. The shakes make it hard to walk without looking like a drunk but I manage, strolling until I'm deep into the underbrush before putting down the body. Going back for the shovel almost finishes me and it's not until I'm standing over the wrapped body again that I realize that there's no way I'm digging this hole with only one functioning arm.

I swear, but there's no energy to it. Dropping the shovel I begin to shift the bracken, creating a hole and then I shove the body and the bag into it. By the time I'm done its covered up enough that no one will ever tell a body is there and I'm covered with sweat. My hair's plastered to my skull and my cast is a filthy mess.

I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to Dad and right now I don't care. I'm just glad I won't have to explain about the nonsexist hole in my stomach. It's not until I'm back in the cabin, the smell of cleaner strong in my nose, do I realize that I probably could have left the body and just cleaned up the blood.

After all, Dad needs to know about the demon in case it wasn't a fluke, a one in a million, crappy kind of bad luck thing. If more come Dad'll be pissed I didn't tell him. Really pissed.

I decide to take a shower, hoping it'll clear my foggy head. It doesn't. I come out feeling just as crappy as when I went in, but I'm too jumpy to lie down. I keep seeing the demon's face, hearing it's voice. What had it meant when it said it was time to go back? Go back where?

And why had she called my Lucy?

The front door opens and Dad and Sam spill into the room. They're arguing, the muscles in Dad's neck contracting and bulging as he struggles not to yell. Sam feels no such struggle. His voice is loud and strident, and he throws his backpack into the corner without even looking.

"You said I could go," Sam snaps.

"That was before your brother broke his arm," says Dad. He looks like he's said this several times.

"So?" Sam snaps back. "You're going to punish me because of something Dean did?"

That's a low blow, but neither of them seems to notice. In fact neither of them has even glanced at where I stand leaning against the kitchen sink.

"You know I need backup, Sammy." Dad slams his journal down on the table before moving to the fridge to grab a beer.

He pulls up short when he sees me. As if he didn't expect me to still be there. Where he'd left me. "Dean," he says. "How did the research go?"

Research?

It takes an absurdly long time for my brain to click on and remind me of the stack of books on the couch Dad asked me to go through. A quick peak shows they're still there. I had looked at them, but everything I'd read had been shoved out of my head by what had happened after.

"Sorry," I hear myself saying. "But something came up."

Dad's eyebrows shoot up and Sam stops whining long enough to gape at me. For a second I'm absurdly pleased that I managed to surprise them. But that fades as Dad's face darkens.

"Something came up?" he repeats, the words dripping sarcastically into the air.

"Yeah." I wish I could shut up, but my brain is moving a half step behind my mouth. "We had a visitor. A demonic visitor," I elaborate when they continue to stare at me blankly.

This shocks them. Dad pales and Sam lets out a startled, "What?"

"Are you okay? What happened?" Dad barks. He swivels, eyes scanning the room. I'm glad he's not looking at me. I want so badly to tell them that I'm not okay. I'm light years from okay. But I stuff the words down and paste on a cocky smile.

"Dead and buried, pops," I say. "Well, buried under bracken. Couldn't exactly dig with this." I wave the cast at them.

Sam's still staring at me like a guppy and Dad looks torn between horror and pride. His eyes dart around the room but the place looks like it did when he left. Finally he looks back at me. "You hurt?"

Sam's eyes widen in horror and I think of the blood, the pain. I shake my head and fight to keep the remembered fear from my eyes. "Naw, little runt never laid a hand on me."

Both Dad and Sam sag a bit with relief. Dad asks me to show them where I hid the body and I make a crack about hoping I can find it, trying to hide the absurd stab at the fact that they both bought right into my lie.

The walk back through the woods is full of Sammy's excited chatter. Finding the body isn't easy. I hid it well and it takes a couple of hours for Sam to spot the white towel in the underbrush. Then they dig. My throat is killing me by the time they're done and my legs feel like putty but I keep the pain to myself. And my fear. I don't tell Dad or Sam what the demon wanted, just fob them off by saying she'd come to kill me, what more do you want, dudes?

After that, it's a scramble to get out. Dad says we don't dare stay in case the demon had buddies. There's never just one, he says darkly as we pack to go. I insist everyone shower first as the two of them smell rank from all the digging.

We drive straight through the night, heading to the one place Dad sees as a safe haven: Pastor Jim's farm. It's an eight-hour drive so we arrive just before dawn, exhausted and cranky. I barely register stumbling inside, greeting Pastor Jim, or falling into bed. The next time I'm fully aware it's afternoon. Sam's bed is empty, as is the rest of the house. A note in the kitchen about going on a food run allays some of my fear but not all. That demon wanted me dead.

I rub my stomach. _You know, she killed you. So how come you_ aren't_ dead?_

Having no good answer for the voice, I do what I do best: I ignore it.

A day passes and then another. With no further attacks, and with no further info to go on, Dad gets frustrated. I know it bothers him, that lone attack. Demons don't attack a person for no reason, especially not a hunter. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell. To blurt it out. But Dad beat me to it.

One afternoon, with Sam out with Pastor Jim in the garden, Dad called me into the kitchen. His research's spread around him on the table, pages and pages on demons, demon patterns, demon activities.

He tells me to take a seat. I do so, unease making me wary. Dad looks haunted. Like whatever he's about to say isn't good news.

"Dean." Dad stops, glances back at his notes. "I think I know why that demon attacked you."

My heart jumps. _There's no way_, I think wildly.

"Dad—"

He holds up a hand. "Let me finish. Dean, the demon that killed your mother…it wasn't there for that. It didn't come into our house to kill her." He licks at his lips nervously. "I think it was there for your brother."

_No. _

I swallow down dried spit. "So you think, what? That the demon who attacked me was there for Sam?" I shake my head, half rising from my seat. "No, Dad. It didn't say anything about Sam."

Briefly I think I see uncertainty in Dad's eyes but it passes quickly. "Why else would it have come?" Dad says, shaking his head. "They must have figured out where we were. It's lucky you were able to kill it before it could get to Sam."

_Yeah, real lucky_.

I know it wasn't there for Sam. She'd been there to kill me. I was sure of it. And she _had_ killed me. That was the part I couldn't tell my father. "Look, Dad," I say now. I need to get this through to him. "The demon wasn't after Sam. Yeah, it knew my name, but it wanted me dead, not him."

Something like terror flashes in Dad's eyes. "Are you sure?"

I nod. I feel breathless for some reason, lungs unable to take a full breath. The demon hadn't exactly called me by my own name, but it hadn't been Sam she'd called out for and that was good enough for me.

"Okay then." Dad stands, eyes scanning the room. He looks lost, not a look I associate with my father. I want to take it back, reassure him, but I don't know how.

"She was the only one; she didn't mention any others that would follow her," I say.

"But she could come back," Dad says. "Cutting off the head won't have killed the demon, son."

"Yeah it did," I say before I can think better of it.

Dad's eyes narrow. I'm not sure why I said that—I shouldn't be sure. But I am; the same way I know, deep in my gut, that Dad's right—this is far from over. Something big went down. Something that could rock the foundations of our lives. But only if I let it.

"I don't know how to explain it, but Dad, I saw the demon inside the girl die." I killed it myself, I want to say, but I bite the words back.

Dad looks far from convince, but the door opens and Sam stamps into the cramp apartment. He stops, feeling the tension immediately. "Everything okay?"

We both nod and even though he doesn't look convinced he doesn't complain or comment, just shrugs off his jacket, grabs a Pop Tart and heads for our bedroom. I'm grateful, even though the Pop Tarts are mine, damn it. I turn my back on Dad and grab some Pop Tarts for myself. The conversation is momentarily tabled and over the next few weeks, Dad brings it up less and less, and begins to relax when there's no sign of another demon attack.

The cast comes off my arm the second week of November and I'm back to hunting at Dad's side. But something is different. I'm faster, stronger than I've ever been. My arm isn't even sore. It's like it was never been broken at all. Fear becomes my constant companion when we get whiff of what might be a string of demon possessions in San Jose, California. We'd been to California before but never this area, but the second we step within its borders I feel like someone's walking over my grave.

The knowledge that this is truly a demon case sets me on edge, especially since I can't explain to Dad and Sam why I'm so sure. They want to do this by the book: research, interviews. But I know the demons aren't anywhere near the people they already possessed or their families. No, I can feel them like the blaring voice of the bartender at last call, the feeling so intense that I wake in the middle of the night on our second day there, and slip from the cheap motel we're staying in.

Dad and Sam don't stir. I stop to grab the machete and my 1911 Colt, neither of which will really hurt a demon. The host sure, which is something I should try and avoid. I curse myself for not grabbing the holy water, but keep going. I can't turn back now. My legs won't let me.

They eat up the road at a pace that I know I wouldn't have been capable of before the demon killed me. I'm running faster than the few lone bicyclists I pass, sometimes even faster than the slow moving cars. The trashy area of the motel quickly gives way to rows of suburban homes. The lights are off in most of them; it's too late at night for many to be awake.

I slow to a stop in front of one. The demon's inside. I know it. Stowing the machete and gun, I knock on the door. It's insane but I find myself grinning when the door is pulled open. He's dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The light behind him casts his front in shadow, but I can just make out sticky looking swirls across the front of his shirt.

_Blood_, I think.

"Can I help you?" His voice is gravely but not suspicious.

He should be. Now that the doors open I can smell the blood. It comes from him and from the air behind him, leaving a greasy trail across my skin. I slide the machete free. "Leave the guy or I cut your head off."

That throws him. He takes a step back. "What the fuck?" he demands.

I step forward, crowding him back. Out of the corner of my eye I see one pale hand sticking out from behind the couch.

"Cut the crap," I say, anger tightening my vocal cords. "We both know you're a demon. "Now, I was going to give you a choice, let you leave peacefully. But now…" I test the swing of the machete, eyes never leaving the demon. "Now, I think I really want to kill you."

The black of the demon slides across the host's eyes like an oil slick. "A machete won't do you much good against something like me, boy. Why don't you just run along back to your daddy before I tear you apart."

I falter slightly, wondering if that's a figure of speech or if he's somehow guessed who I am. It doesn't matter. I don't want to hurt the poor bastard he's possessing, but I think about the blood, the dead woman behind the sofa, and wonder if the guy would really want to wake up to discover her dead, her blood on his hands, no other explanation but that he'd somehow become a murderer.

It'd be more merciful to kill him.

The demon must have sensed the moment when I went from hesitation to certainty for he lunges forward. The movement surprises me and he's able to slam me to the floor. It doesn't hurt as much as it once did, but the machete is trapped between our bodies, both of his wrists around the arm holding it. I punch him and he flies back, crashing against the entertainment unit across the room. He comes up snarling, but I can sense his surprise, his uncertainty. No human should have been able to throw him so far. We both know it.

"What the hell are you?" he says.

I slide to my feet. I don't like what he's insinuating, but since I haven't been sure myself I can't argue. Instead I smile. "Names Dean Winchester. And you picked the wrong town to fuck with."

I throw the machete. It crosses the space between us before I'm even finished speaking and sinks deep into the demon's stomach. He starts to fold as I leap forward, one arm looping around his neck, the other around the handle of the machete. "Now," I say, twisting the handle slightly. "Tell me why you're killing these people."

The demon hisses, tries to throw me off, but I'm having none of it and tighten my grip on his neck until he gives in and stops struggling. "Okay, okay," he snarls. "I'll tell you, just remove the blade, man."

Fear should have been coursing through me or at least adrenaline. But all I feel is cool calculation. Removing the machete helps the demon, but I can't stand the thought that the man whose body the demon has taken over is also in pain, so after a moments hesitation, I jerk it free and press it against the demon's neck. "Alright, it's out: answer the question."

The pause before he answers is long—too long, I think—but finally he says, in a reluctant tone, "I was told to."

"By who?"

"Another demon," he says in a tone that makes the unspoken, _of course_, clearly heard.

I can feel my patience start to slip and dig the blade in a little harder. "Tell me the demon's name, wise ass. And maybe I let you keep your head attached."

He doesn't test me again, but I can feel he wants too, that he's looking for an opening, a weakness. "Her name is Lilith," he admits in a sulky tone. "She told me to come here and cause some mayhem." His eyes slant towards me, a sly cast to his features that sets alarm bells ringing in my head. "She wanted hunters to come. One particular hunter. She wants to take this guy out, make him pay for something. I don't know what; just that she's mighty pissed off."

_No_, I think. He can't be talking about Dad, he can't.

"Who's the hunter?" I demand. The blade is so deeply pressed against his neck it's a wonder I haven't cut straight through his larynx already. Black eyes sneer at me as he spits out the name I'd been dreading. Dad. My arm is driving the machete clear through the demon's chin and into its brain before the demon has a chance to complete the final syllable. The sneer in those black eyes dies, replaced by shock and then blank empty as the demon flickers and dies.

I send a quick apology to the man killed along with the demon and then I'm running; out the door and across the lawn. I need to get back—now. I wish for the car, but my feet eat up the pavement and its less than ten minutes before I see the dim porch light. All looks quiet—and then I hear Sammy scream.

The adrenaline and fear that had been missing when I'd first confronted the demon hit me like a freight train, and I nearly tear the door clean from the hinges. The scene freezes me. Dad grapples with a woman in the tiny kitchen area. They're fighting over what looks like a butcher knife. Sam's being held against the wall by two women, whose beetle black eyes snap to me as the door sags away.

The woman—demon—slams a fist into Dad's jaw, knocking him backward and rips the knife free before turning to face me. She smiles wide and swirls the knife between her fingers in a move that should have been impossible without slicing off several fingers.

"Well, if it isn't the middle Winchester. Where'd you run off to, cutey?"

I bare my teeth at her in a matching smile and lift up the machete. "Takin' care of a little friend of yours sweetheart. Hope it's okay, but I thought he'd be more comfortable six feet under."

Her face tightens for a second before visibly relaxing. She shrugs. "Oh, well, I didn't much care for Cord anyway. Always was a bit of a whiner. Now you would make a fabulous demon. Or—" her head tilts, a vicious smile spreading across her face. "—one hell of a fuck."

Dad's wiping blood from his lip, eying the demon like he wants to tear her apart. I ignore him and keep my focus on the demon. Maybe if I can keep her attention long enough, Dad'll be able to do something.

So I amp up my own smile to what I've been assured is a smile that will melt the pants off any women. "Sorry, sweetheart," I say in my best drawl. "But I'll have to decline."

"Really?" It's almost a purr as she saunters towards me and I think that if she wasn't possessed I'd have her naked and half way to happy land by now. But those black eyes never falter, even as she runs a finger down my chest. "Are you sure?" Her nail digs in a bit and my smile threatens to slide.

I lean forward until my lips are against the shell of her ear. "Tell you what," I say in a low voice. "You let my dad and brother go, and you and me can do anything you want." My heart is thudding as I wait for her answer. Sam looks terrified and I can't see Dad, but I can imagine the look of frustration on his face at his inability to do anything to help.

Her laughter draws my attention back to her with a snap. Somehow her hands have landed on my hips without my even noticing and I can feel the prick of each of her fingernails as she presses into me. "Ooh, aren't you tempting? But…" She shifts back to look into my face and my heart plummets. "I'll have to decline, sugar. See your brother needs to come with us."

"Why?" It's Dad; his voice sounds strained.

The demon never shifts her eyes from my face. "Because my daddy has plans for him; such delicious plans." She licks her lips and I punch her, hard in the stomach, throwing my entire weight into it. She's not expecting it and a vicious delight fills me at the surprised look on her face, the utter shock as she goes flying backward, colliding with the demon holding Sam's right arm. Both go down and Dad and I don't hesitate.

"Get Sam!" Dad yells, but I'm already on it. My knife is slicing through the air as I bellow at Sam to duck. He does just as my knife buries itself in the demon's chest, straight between the ribs and into its heart. Just as with Cord, I see the black smoke puff out and dribble down the demons front. I slam my fist into it and the black smoke ignites and sparks away.

I don't stay to see the body fall, but turn and grab Sammy, hauling him behind me. He's breathing heavily and yelling something, but I don't listen. The second demon has a gunshot wound straight in the center of her forehead, and while it's put her down temporarily, the first demon is still going strong.

Dad's holding his own though, so I go after the demon, kicking her in the face to keep her down. She dies just as easy as her partner and I feel a strange thrill of satisfaction, of delight, at her death. I stand, put my fingers in my mouth and blow a sharp whistle. The sound catches Dad and the demon off guard and they break apart to stare at me. I'm glad to see that the demon looks just as beaten as Dad, blood running down her face from a cut over her eye.

Her eyes dart from the body at my feet to the one slumped in the corner to Sam who stands by the front door, shotgun up and aimed dead center on her. "What did you do to them?" she demands and there's fear in her voice.

I shrug and twirl my knife. "I killed them," I say. "Just like your buddy Cord. Weren't you listening when I said I'd put him six feet under?"

"But…that's impossible! Stabbing us does jack squat, you stupid, ignorant worm."

"Ooh, that hurts," I say with mock pain before growing serious. "I'll give you a choice: leave and tell your daddy never to send anyone after Sammy again; or die. You're choice."

"You dare to threaten me. Do you have any idea who I am? Who my father is? We rule hell you arrogant sack of shit. We don't take orders from the likes of you."

Rule hell? I'm not sure whether to laugh or be horrified and it's a struggle to keep a calm exterior. "I don't care; leave now."

She sneers at me and I can tell she's debating the pros and cons of going up against me. She turns to face me fully and white slides over her eyes. The color change is unnerving, the white so different than the black of the other demons. "What the hell?" Sam gasps from behind me.

The woman smiles. "My name is Lilith; you shouldn't speak to me like that. It makes me…cranky." Her hand comes up and before I can ready myself, a white light shoots from her palm. It's blinding. Sam and Dad both scream, the noise horrifying in the overwhelming light. Anger makes me force my eyes open and squint against the light. I pull the Colt from my pocket and focus on the brightest part of the light. My family's screams reach an unbearable pitch and I pull the trigger.

The sound of the hammer striking is lost but I hear it when the bullet strikes Lilith, the light and the screams breaking off. My heart pounds in my ears as I blink, desperate to clear my vision. It comes back in fits and starts, starbursts of light fading out one by one until the room returns to focus.

Lilith lies, half propped against the back wall, eyes open and blank. Black bubbles out of the wound in the center of her forehead and dribbles across her lips and chin. Dad's crouched not far from her, hands over his head, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. I can hear Sam's harsh breathing coming from behind me, so I know he's alive as well. But Lilith…I need to make sure she's dead.

Glass crunches under my boots as I cross to her. There's not a flicker in her wide eyes, but I still slap my palm against the bullet hole. Sparks ignite the second my flesh touches the stream of black blood, and the stream fizzles and pops out of existence, leaving nothing but the sharp smell of ozone behind.

My hands are shaking as I back away and go to Sam. He's in a fetal position, hands over his head, same as Dad.

"Sammy." My voice bounces and cracks like a teenager and he flinches, body uncurling just enough for one eye to peak out. His pupil is blown out, as are the blood vessels around it, giving his eye a bloody appearance.

"Dean?" he whispers sounding twelve instead of sixteen.

"Yeah, buddy." My voice steadies, gaining strength. I can't let him see how shaken I am. I squeeze his shoulder, trying to offer reassurance I don't feel. "You okay?"

He gives a tentative nod. "Dad?" he questions.

I glance at him. Dad's uncurled enough for me to see that he's watching us, brown eyes just as bloody as Sam's.

"I'm here, kiddo," Dad says. He hisses as he pushes himself up so he can lean against the wall.

I want to go to him, check to see where the blood darkening the front of his shirt is coming from, but something in his face stops me. It takes me a second to puzzle it out; what that look is. And then I get it. And I wish I hadn't.

Because Dad is looking at me with fear.

And I know nothing will ever be the same again.


End file.
